


Hold Fast: A Terror Prompt Fill Collection

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Foreboding, Gen, Humor, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: A collection of prompt fills fromThe Terror.Ch. 1: Amiability (Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson)Ch. 2: Polite Fiction (Henry Goodsir & Graham Gore)Ch. 3: A Trifling Request (James Fitzjames & Francis Crozier)Ch. 4: Different Prayers (Edward Little & John Irving)Ch. 5: Speaking in Silence (Henry Goodsir & Silna)Ch. 6: Agelenidae (Henry Goodsir & Cornelius Hickey)Ch. 7: The Masks We Wear (James Fitzjames & Francis Crozier)Ch. 8: Need (Francis Crozier & James Fitzjames)





	1. Amiability (Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson)

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to all the people on Tumblr who sent me such excellent prompts. All prompts were taken from [Prompt Set #916](http://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/post/159404899134/prompt-set-916) by [All of the Prompts](http://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> I've made a few minor edits here and there for better accuracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miss--demeanor requested the prompt "It's been a long day" for Crozier and Jopson

Upon his return to the wardroom, Jopson discovered that the captain was not alone as he had supposed him to be. His current visitor, however, seemed much more welcome than his previous guests had been.

“I see you survived dinner.”

Crozier looked up, his hand paused upon the top of Neptune’s head. “Barely. I felt my soul beginning to leave my body during the Chinese assassin story, but somehow I held on.”

Jopson grinned. “Well may I say, Captain - on behalf of myself and the other men - that I am very glad you pulled through.”

“So is Neptune, though I have no illusions as to why.” Crozier gave the dog a last affectionate pat before rising. “I saved back a bit of beef tongue for him.”

“That was very generous.” Jopson hurried over to help Crozier out of his coat.

“Well I have few enough friends on this expedition, Jopson. I’d best try to hang on to them if I can.”

“I think you sell yourself short, sir.” Jopson eased the coat from Crozier’s shoulders and went to hang it up. Crozier worked at unbuttoning his cuffs, watching Jopson with a wry smile.

“Do I indeed? Tell me something, Jopson,” he continued when his steward returned to help him off with his neckcloth. “You hear things I’m not privy to in my… lofty position.” Sarcasm hung heavy on the words. “What do the men think of him?”

Jopson paused. “Sir John, do you mean?”

“No, no. Fitzjames.” Crozier pronounced the name with a hiss of the final syllables.

“I believe he is generally well regarded. The men find him… amiable, I would say.”

“Hmmph. Yes, I’m sure they do.” Crozier sighed. “Amiability comes as easy to Fitzjames as breathing, I’ll wager. While for some of us it’s like…. wringing blood from a stone. If we ever achieve it at all.”

Jopson was silent for a moment. “Of course I cannot speak for all the men, sir,” he said at last, “but I did hear one of them say once that, given the choice, they’d much serve under you than Captain Fitzjames.”

“Really?” One of Crozier’s brows quirked up. “Did he express his reasoning?”

Jopson was unbuttoning Crozier’s waistcoat now, having laid the captain’s pocket watch carefully aside. “Indeed he did, sir. He said that Captain Fitzjames’s charm was all very well and good but-- a year’s sail away from England, when the ice is closing in on all sides and the sun has taken its leave, he’d rather be serving under a captain who’d taken men into such climes before. A captain who knows his business and doesn’t hesitate to go about it.”

“He said all that?” Crozier’s half-smile was bemused.

“He did, sir.”

“And you’re certain he was talking about me and not… James Ross, say?”

Jopson smiled. “Quite sure.” He gathered up Crozier’s waistcoat, watch, and neckcloth. “Well, captain, it’s been a long day and I’m sure you’re ready to be abed. I’ll just go make up your bunk, shall I?”

“Yes, Jopson, thank you. Oh, and Jopson?” Jopson had taken a few steps before Crozier’s voice turned him back around.

“Yes Captain?”

“This sailor who was so effusive in my defense,” Crozier began slyly, a sparkle in his eyes, “He wouldn’t happen to have been a handsome, dark-haired young fellow serving as captain’s steward on the _H. M. S. Terror_ , would he?”

The color that lit Jopson’s cheeks spoke volumes. Crozier smiled and waved him away. “Go on with you, Jopson. Get that bunk ready for me. And…” He fixed the younger man with a significant look. “Thank you.”

“Of course, sir,” Jopson softly replied.


	2. Polite Fiction (Henry Goodsir & Graham Gore)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graduatedpillowmonster requested the prompt "It made absolutely no sense" with Goodsir and Gore

The wind whipped at the canvas tent walls, the ice creaked and groaned around and beneath them. It was easy to imagine that they were held in the claws of some great leviathan, its chill breath blown against their feeble shelter, its enormous belly grumbling with hunger pangs. Goodsir shifted in his bedroll, trying to dismiss such nonsensical fancies, but he could hear and feel some of the other men stirring as well, a restlessness keeping sleep at bay. Perhaps they were envisioning similar monsters. Or maybe they were just sore and cold.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Goodsir tried to concentrate on a neutral image that might allow his mind to relax. The petals of a flower he’d once sketched; the symmetry of a bird’s feathers. Nothing seemed to help. At last he was spared any further effort: a hand clapped upon his arm and shook him gently, and he turned to find Lt. Gore leaning close over him.

“I thought you were awake,” Gore whispered. “Is something troubling you, Dr. Goodsir?”

“Nothing in particular. My mind will not rest. Perhaps the exercise and novelty of the day over excited it.”

Gore grimaced, nodding. “We share the same predicament, then.” The lieutenant paused, then hurried on. “I wonder if would you step outside with me for a moment? I wish to have a few words with you. Away from the others.”

“Certainly.” Goodsir didn’t particularly relish the thought of going out into the harsher cold - the collective body heat in the tent at least alleviated some of the chill - but it was better than laying awake one more moment. He followed Gore out the flap, gasping at the first shock of the wind against his bare cheeks. But the sting was quickly driven away by the sight of the stars, filling the whole arc of the sky above him. More clouds were racing in from the north, but it was well worth leaving the tent, Goodsir thought, to have been allowed this fleeting, breathtaking glimpse of the heavens.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Goodsir asked. They turned their backs to the wind, standing side by side and stamping their feet.

Gore gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I am almost ashamed to speak of it.”

“You needn’t be. Whatever is troubling you, you have my complete discretion.”

“Oh I have no doubts on that score, Mr. Goodsir.” Gore smiled at him. “You are a good man. I do not trust anyone on this expedition more. No, I speak merely of my reluctance to admit it.” He was silent for a moment, rubbing his mittened hands briskly together, biting at his lower lip. “You know that I go frequently on sledge journeys such as this. It never troubles me: leaving the confines of the ship, venturing out into the unknown. The unknown has never felt to me like something to fear.” He looked around at the landscape of jumbled ice, his brows knit. “So it makes absolutely no sense.”

Goodsir watched him, curious. “What doesn’t, Lt. Gore?”

Gore shook his head. “This feeling I’ve had since we left _Erebus_ that I’ll never set foot on her again.”

It took a moment for Goodsir to process what he’d just heard. “You hide such feelings very well, Lieutenant.”

Gore laughed. “I have to, don’t I? It’s all part of leading men. Besides, I…” He shrugged and looked carefully at Goodsir. “Such feelings have never plagued me before. Dr. Goodsir, do you think… In your opinion, do you think this is indicative of some kind of malady?”

“No, no,” Goodsir shook his head. “I do not. Take comfort, Lt. Gore. I believe such feelings are completely normal.”

“Truly, Dr. Goodsir?”

Goodsir smiled. “As I have told you before, I am no doctor. But… I know enough about the body - and about these realms - to know that even the healthiest man can become… agitated in such places. Look around us. We are in a wholly different world to that which we are used to. It is only natural that we should have some trouble, from time to time, in adjusting. Just before we came out here, Lieutenant, I found myself imagining that the groans of the ice were coming from some enormous creature curled up beneath our camp.” He gave a small laugh. “This place cannot but give free rein to our imaginations.”

Gore nodded, then clapped his hand upon Goodsir’s shoulder. “You have comforted me, Doctor. And yes, I will persist in calling you Doctor. You have helped me more than any with a claim to the title ever have.”

They walked back to the tent, Goodsir sparing a moment to take another look at the sky. The clouds were rushing back with preternatural speed: less than half of the stars he’d glimpsed earlier were still visible.

“Do not be troubled,” he whispered to Gore as they crept back inside the shelter. “I am certain all will be well.”

A polite fiction. A man may respect nature, revere her, love her. But she is a fickle mistress. And a naturalist knows, better than anyone else, how swiftly her loveliness can turn cold and cruel.

Goodsir settled back into his bedroll, a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was not certain at all.


	3. A Trifling Request (James Fitzjames & Francis Crozier)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plaidmax requested the prompt "It made absolutely no sense" for Crozier and Fitzjames

It made absolutely no sense, what he was doing. He knew that, and Bridgens certainly knew it, judging by the look on his face.

“Now, sir?” Bridgens gaped at him. “Is it not likely that Captain Crozier will be abed at this hour?”

“Very likely, but I care not. There are words that need saying and I intend to say them.”

Bridgens shook himself, attention to his duties seeming to take a physical effort of will. He took over buttoning Fitzjames’s greatcoat, then fetched his woolen scarf, wrapping it quickly about the captain’s neck. “What of the creature, sir?”

“Damn the creature,” Fitzjames huffed. “I’ll take a rifle.” Bridgens stared at him. “And a couple of the Marines on duty if that will set your mind at ease, Bridgens.”

“It would help, sir.”

The men on deck were no less astonished than Bridgens to see their commander astir in the dead of night, but at least his appearance relieved the monotony of their watch. For the two Marines he took with him, it was an opportunity to get the blood circulating in their legs again. The journey to _Terror_ was blessedly uneventful, but the astonishment of Fitzjames’s own crew was nothing compared to Jopson’s surprise. Roused from sleep by the sound of the three men coming down the hatch, he hastened out of his bunk in his stockinged feet, tucking his shirt into his trousers and hissing for silence.

“What is this racket?” he demanded, not yet having seen the men’s faces. “The captain’s trying to sleep–-” Jopson slid to a sudden stop mere inches from Fitzjames, his eyes going wide. “Commander! Forgive me, I–-” He swallowed. “I will go wake the captain.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Jopson. I’ll do it myself.”

“But-- But sir!”

Ignoring Jopson’s protests, Fitzjames brushed past the man and entered the wardroom. His eyes fell immediately on the empty glass and whiskey bottle on the table and he grunted, unsurprised. He threw off his coat and scarf, grabbed a still-lit lantern, and strode into Crozier’s cabin.

“Francis, wake up,” he cried, swinging the lantern’s beam over the sleeping man’s face. “We need to talk.”

Crozier stirred a little, grimacing, but did not open his eyes. “What? Jopson--" 

“It’s James, not Jopson. Wake up.” He jabbed his hand sharply into the vicinity of Crozier’s ribs.

That did it. Crozier’s eyes fluttered open and James watched with no little amusement as recognition dawned on his face, followed swiftly by anger.

“Good God, James! What is the meaning of this?” James held the lantern right in front of his face and Crozier squinted, batting at it. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Fitzjames said, his voice droll. He pulled the chair out from Crozier’s desk and sat down, facing the bunk. “Very late.”

“Then what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“There are things I need to get off my chest.”

Crozier rolled his eyes. “So you walked a quarter mile across the pack to what? Finish an argument? I wouldn’t have credited you with such pettiness, James. That’s more my style.”

Fitzjames ignored him. “This must stop, Francis. We are not adversaries.”

Crozier propped himself up on his elbow, glaring at the other man. “I don’t remember saying we were.”

“Your every action proclaims it!”

Crozier groaned and rubbed his eyes. “'Adversaries’ implies that we’re in competition for something. What on earth would that be in this hellish place?” He gave a humorless bark of a laugh. “I have no wish to win whatever the prize in contention is, James. I cede it gladly to you.” With that, Francis fell back against his pillow.

“I will not let you make light of this,” Fitzjames said sharply, emphasizing his words by rapping his knuckles on the desk. “I will not, Francis. I am determined to have this out tonight.” Crozier groaned again. “Sir John is gone. We can look to him for guidance no longer. You are the commander of this expedition, whether you wish it or not. And I am your second, whether you wish _that_ or not. We must cooperate for the good of the service, for the good of the men - no matter our personal feelings. And part of cooperation, Francis, is consultation. This sledging party of Fairholme’s you have set to depart at dawn…” Fitzjames shook his head. “Sir John was set against it, I am inclined to his view, but I am also willing to defer to your wishes, if you would but delay it long enough for us to consult…” His voice faded. Crozier had neither spoken nor moved, nor made any more sounds of irritation.

“Francis, are you listening?” Fitzjames cried, starting up from his chair. “Francis! Oh no, by God, you’ll not fall back asleep!” He sat down upon Francis’s bunk, not bothering to be careful about crushing its occupant.

“That’s my leg, goddamn you!” Francis roared, pushing ineffectively at Fitzjames.

“Are you listening to me now, Francis?” Fitzjames grabbed him by the collar of his nightshirt and shook him a little. “Fairholme’s sledge party…”

“Oh bloody hell!” Crozier raised both hands to his face, moaning. “Will you leave me be? Please? I am tired, James.” He was silent for a moment, then let his hands fall away from his face. “Oh, very well. Give me a kiss, then.”

Fitzjames blinked. “I-- What did you just say?”

Crozier’s eyes were closed, a slight smile curling his lips. “Give us a goodnight kiss, James, and I’ll delay Fairholme’s party.”

Fitzjames stared at the other man. “Are you drunk?”

“God I hope so! With any luck I’ll wake in the morning and think this conversation was nothing but a bad dream.” When Fitzjames remained silent, Crozier sighed. “It’s either a kiss, James, or we settle this matter outside with a duel on the ice, and if you choose that and make me get out of this warm bed, I’ll be in an even worse temper for the rest of this voyage than I have been up to now.”

“A duel? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not really. I dread adding another story to your gunshot wound repertoire, that would make every dinner last a year.” Crozier lifted one hand and poked at his cheek. “Here, James. Just a little goodnight peck, there you go. I wager I’ll not be the first boy you’ve kissed.”

Fitzjames ground his teeth. “You are the most insufferable person I’ve ever had the misfortune to serve with.” He took a deep breath and, after several moments, spoke again. “And you’ll delay Fairholme’s party?”

“I will.” Crozier tapped his cheek again. Fitzjames sighed.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips swiftly to Crozier’s cheek. Then, without another word, he was gone.

Fitzjames did not see Crozier again until the next morning… just after Fairholme’s sledging party disappeared amidst the distant pack.

“You lied to me,” he snarled, when Francis arrived onboard _Erebus_.

Francis smiled airily. “Yes, but how else was I going to get that lovely kiss?”


	4. Different Prayers (Edward Little & John Irving)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mavrykcompany requested the prompt "It's been a long day" for Little and Irving

Irving shook him gently awake. “Your watch.”

Disoriented from coming straight out of a dream - he couldn’t remember all the details, but it had involved a delicious shepherd’s pie - Little nodded and struggled upright. By the time he had come to full consciousness and was reaching for his boots, Irving had taken his well-thumbed Bible out of his coat pocket and was turning to a marked page.

“It’s been a long day, John. You’d better try to get some sleep,” Little told him, nodding at the small volume bound in black leather. “I’ll wager you’ve read that before.”

Irving smiled. “It comforts me. And a little time spared for devotions is my duty.”

Little grunted. “Staying alert on watch is your duty. All our duty,” he hastened to add so that Irving wouldn’t assume he was offering criticism. He wasn’t. Irving was always reliable and rarely allowed his piety to interfere with his work. Pausing with one boot on, one still dangling from his fingers, Little said: “I dread going out there again.” He said it quietly, almost more to himself than to Irving. “Not for myself. For the others. That thing gives no warning before it strikes. No indication of its presence, save someone’s screams. I am no medium. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. How am I - how are any of us - to keep one another safe from such a creature?”

Irving shook his head. “I don’t know. I feel the same dread each time I step foot on deck.” He drummed his fingers on the little book in his hands. “We can only have faith. Faith that we are not alone in our struggle here. Faith that we will be guided safely through this in the end.”

Little stared at him silently for a long moment. “Does the possibility never occur to you that… That God has abandoned us?”

Irving pulled him up straighter, as if righteousness had driven the weariness from his bones. “God never abandons those who have given themselves into His keeping.”

Little spread his hands. “Then perhaps we have offended Him in some way.”

He could tell he’d gone too far then. Irving’s jaw went rigid and tilted up, eyes flashing. “ _I have not_.”

Sighing, Little nodded and pulled on his other boot. “Then I earnestly pray He keeps you safe, my friend. Truly I do.”

He rose and started to walk past Irving, when Irving reached out and grasped the sleeve of his coat. “My faith disappoints you, Edward?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Not in the least.” Little paused, then plunged forward, needing to express himself honestly no matter what it cost. “It’s your idea of God that does. You think Him _so very small_. A small, simple deity for a small, simple world. But we’ve sailed a long way past small and simple, John, surely. And if God is infinite, then His creation is also infinite. And in all that infinite creation, I just think…” He drew a deep breath and his voice fell to an urgent whisper. “Is it not possible that there are things of which we cannot conceive? Things, perhaps, we were not meant to conceive of? Things we were not… _meant to survive_?”

Irving made no reply. A little of the color he had regained from his watch outside had faded from his cheeks. Little shook his head, as if to physically throw off his thoughts. “I leave you to say your prayers, John. I go to say mine. I think it likely we pray in very different ways.”


	5. Speaking in Silence (Henry Goodsir & Silna)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> berenswick requested the prompt "I don't like the way they treat you" for Goodsir and Silna

Goodsir gave the lady a small, apologetic smile as he re-entered the cramped room. She said nothing, merely stared up at him with her dark liquid eyes, but it seemed to him there was a question in her gaze. Or perhaps that was just his imagination. God knew communication had never been his strong suit. He could comprehend mollusks, and the language in the veins of leaves had always been easy for him to read. But his fellow human beings were another matter entirely.

“One of the men fell, outside. On the ice,” he explained to her, first in English, then in as much Inutituk as he knew to approximate his meaning. She gave no indication of how much she understood, her expression as impassive as ever, but he plowed on nonetheless. “He fractured - broke - a bone in his arm. Here.” Goodsir ran the fingers of his left hand along the outside of his right arm, tapping a place on his forearm just a few inches above his wrist.

“Arm,” the lady said unbidden.

“Yes. A bone, just here. The ulna, actually.”

“Ull-ah,” she murmured, less confidently. “Ull-nah.”

“Yes.” He nodded, smiling. “Dr. Stanley wished me to set it. So it would not cause the man pain. And so it could heal. It-- It took some time.”

Time had been a difficult concept to translate. Goodsir had a theory that time, to the Netsilik, meant something very different than it did to Englishmen. Or Scotsmen, for that matter. A meaning that manifested itself in the thickness of ice or the toughness of a seal’s blubber. Or the angle at which snowflakes struck one’s face. Not something intangible, to be measured by gears and springs.

Nonetheless, the lady seemed to understand him. She gave a small, brisk nod, her eyes as intent as ever upon his face. He felt himself blush beneath that intense scrutiny and he dropped his gaze to the notebook on his knees, his fingers scrabbling through the pages. “Um, let’s see… Where did we leave off the last time?…” He fumbled for his spectacles, slipping them on single-handedly. “Ah, I think — I think we were discussing weather, types of — of storms, of--"

“Mr. Goodsir, I’ve a question for you.” Des Voeux appeared suddenly in the doorway, whatever book he had lately taken to reading during his shifts of guard duty held open in his hands. Goodsir stilled, took a deep breath, and forced a small, polite smile before turning to Des Voeux. “Yes? How may I be of assistance?”

“What on Earth is a… _Pandalus borealis_ then?” Des Voeux asked, wrinkling his nose as if the words somehow offended him.

“A _Pandalus borealis_? That is a type of shrimp, Mr. Des Voeux, a cold water species.” Warming immediately to his subject, Goodsir closed his notebook - marking his place with his finger - and turned to face the other man fully. “They are quite fascinating creatures: hermaphroditic, in fact. I have a preserved specimen in my quarters, if you would be interested--"

Des Voeux interrupted him with a loud snort and rolled his eyes. “I’d have to be bored out of my mind,” he drawled, leaving as quickly as he’d come.

Goodsir nodded and turned back to his notebook. He was used to it by now: the jeers of the men, the mockery they made of all he considered sacred. He had learned to shake it off like water.

When he glanced up at the lady, he found her glaring at Des Voeux’s retreating back, jaw set, mouth drawn in a hard, tight line. He wondered at it, this sudden expression of anger. None of the men were pleased by her presence aboard the ship, but they had been commanded to leave her unmolested; still, Goodsir couldn’t help but worry that Des Voeux had done something to give the lady offense. He cleared his throat softly and she returned her gaze to his face. Her features softened. He considered asking her what was wrong, but he didn’t have the right words.

“Snow,” he began, but before he had a chance to convey his meaning to the lady, Mr. Couch rapped loudly on the door frame.

“Sorry to interrupt your _important work_ ,” the mate said, smirking, “but Dr. Stanley requires your presence in the sick bay. Man complaining of catarrh. The doctor has a headache and needs a lie down, so you’ll have to take over. Hop to it, man.”

Couch at least had the decency not to linger to make sure Goodsir complied with the order: perhaps he had earned just enough respect not to be physically escorted to the bay. Sighing, he closed his notebook.

“I’m afraid we’re not going to make much progress today,” he told the lady. “Maybe when I bring your dinner we will have a little more time. I’m very sorry,” he added as he stood.

In a heartbeat she had reached out and grabbed his left hand. Goodsir’s surprise manifested itself in a quiet little gasp: her touch was warm, her grasp soft but insistent. She began speaking in her native tongue, a rapid-fire clip, and Goodsir struggled to catch a familiar word.

Something about the men, the other men… The lady’s eyes flashed as she spat out the words. He, himself… the other men… Goodsir shook his head and the lady paused, swallowed, began again: more slowly. She kept hold of his hand.

_I don’t like the way they treat you_.

Goodsir blinked. Something inside his chest, something that had been tightly furled, seemed to burst open, like the sun appearing from behind the clouds for the first time on a dull winter’s day. He had ceased getting angry on his own behalf long ago. That she could have done so instead…

He felt his cheeks redden, but he held her bright gaze. If he never had cause to speak another word of Inutituk in his life, it had been worth learning just for this.

He wasn’t good at communicating. He never had been. So he simply squeezed her hand by way of reply.


	6. Agelenidae (Henry Goodsir & Cornelius Hickey)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pottedmusic requested the prompt "It made absolutely no sense" for Goodsir and Hickey

It was an unfortunate side effect of being a naturalist aboard a ship at sea. One could not always be studying aquatic life, so in the times between one began studying the men around them. Mentally labeling them with their phylum, class, and family; identifying their traits and preferred habitats. Goodsir believed himself to be fairly observant and discerning in his observations: he had noted, for example, a hypocritical streak in Lt. Irving, who would criticize other men for a tendency towards drunkenness but never refuse a full glass himself. Lt. Le Vesconte, as another example, had a fondness for ease that prompted him, in sly and subtle ways, to cut corners in the execution of his duties.

But Mr. Hickey… Mr. Hickey eluded him. He had made a study of the man, at least during those infrequent times when they came into contact, but unlike the rest of the crew, Hickey was proving too slippery to pin neatly down. Goodsir pondered the matter after his return that night to _Erebus_ , several hours after Hickey had tried - through obsequiousness as viscous as lamp oil - to gain his confidence. He had called the man out on it, asked him if such a tactic ever worked for him: and yet Goodsir had a sense that Hickey had not been abashed in the slightest by his own transparency. It made absolutely no sense. Were there men capable of falling for such an act? Goodsir imagined there must be, or else Hickey would have abandoned the effort long ago.

Still, that only made the matter more perplexing. What was it that Hickey was trying so desperately to achieve? Hard, exemplary work would bring a man like him promotion, so it was something more than ambition. Power? That was part of it, but Hickey’s methods were more insidious than those of your run-of-the-mill bully.

 _Survival_. Yes, that was it. Survival of the most brutish and primitive kind.

As he thought about it, Goodsir realized with a start that he had identified Hickey after all. _Agelenidae_. The funnel weaver. Goodsir remembered observing one once. It had woven its web in the ivy that clambered up the trunk of an oak, its perfectly round funnel entrance at the center of the silken net. He had taken a small drop of water on his finger and let it drip on one corner of the web. Mistaking the vibration of the silk for struggling prey, the spider had emerged from its den, eight long legs unfolding, scurrying out with alarming speed to see what it had caught.

Yes. That was Mr. Hickey. He was busy spinning his web of communication as far and wide as he could stretch it between both ships. And every vibration - each new arrival or departure, every raised voice from an officer’s meeting, every rumor - brought him crawling silently forth, ready to devour each new tidbit of information.

Only a moment’s irritation had saved him from becoming entangled in that web, Goodsir realized. He shivered and it wasn’t because of the cold.


	7. The Masks We Wear (James Fitzjames & Francis Crozier)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> berenswick requested the prompt "Are you wearing that?" for Fitzjames and Crozier

“Are you wearing that?”

James had heard the footsteps coming down the ladder, but he had never guessed it would be Francis he would turn to find leaning against the door frame. Lt. Little had informed him the captain was much improved, but making the trek across the ice to the _Erebus_ and down to the hold was more than James had expected him to attempt so soon. Francis took in the sight before him slowly, gaze raking up and down James’s considerable length. His arms were folded across his chest but his expression seemed bemused.

“A gentleman would have knocked,” James said haughtily, laying one hand daintily upon his chest and grabbing his skirt with the other, sweeping the fall of silk velvet about his legs as he turned back to the trunk of costumes. He studied his reflection in the small shaving mirror, stooping a little to admire the gentle scoop of the gown’s neckline. In the light of the oil lamp his skin appeared positively bronzed, as if he’d just returned to England from three years’ duty in the Indies.

“Since when have you ever considered me a gentleman?” Francis asked.

James sighed. “Why does every conversation with you feel like a punishment? Like an interlude with the cat?” He smoothed the bodice, long fingers tracing the gold embroidery. “Sometimes words are just words, Francis.”

“Words are never just words.” Francis stirred, entering the room and brushing past James to reach the trunk. He looked down at its contents, sneering in distaste as if they’d been steeped in bilge water. “There’s always… something behind them. Even the frivolous ones.”

“Ah, so now we come to the point,” James said, smirking unpleasantly. “Frivolity.” His eye was caught by a box of props against the wall and he began to rummage through them. “You object to my carnivale?”

“Not entirely.” Francis nodded at James’s gown. “However, I do object most strenuously to that.”

“What? Why?”

“Practicality, for starters. What are you wearing beneath it?”

James had just picked up a lady’s silk fan. With a dramatic gasp, he shook it open and held it up, covering the lower half of his face. His dark eyes sparkled above the crimson folds. “You shock me, sir. Have you no decency?”

Frances grimaced. “I meant for the cold.”

Grinning, James dropped the fan and continued exploring. “Are you worried about me, Francis?”

“Yes,” Francis replied. Stooping to pull a mask from the chest he added: “Worried about you making a fool of yourself.” He turned the mask over in his hand: a deeply lined face with heavy jowls and an exaggerated frown. Tragedy. “What kind of an example will it set for the men if their captain freezes his bollocks solid?”

One of James’s elegant eyebrows shot up in a dark, delicate curve. “You take an eager interest in my bollocks, do you?”

Francis raised the mask of Tragedy up in front of his face. It was uncommonly warm in the hold: his face stung as if he’d been slapped. “I merely seek to save you the indignity of Stanley having to saw them off.”

“No, that one won’t do for you.” James snatched Tragedy out of Francis’s hand and threw it back into the chest. “The point of a masquerade, Francis, is to dress as something you aren’t. Here.” Reaching in again, he pulled out a half-mask crowned with a jester’s cap, complete with bells. “This will do better for you, I think.”

“As much as I appreciate the advice,” Francis took the mask and dropped it unceremoniously back amidst the costumes, “I think I’ll just attend in the guise of the commander of this expedition. But I have no wish to impede the men’s fun. Or yours, James.”

Smiling as if at some private jest, Francis turned to leave. “Well you could at least tell me before you go,” James said suddenly, arresting his steps. Francis paused at the door.

“Tell you what?”

James’s lips curved upward and he took a few steps toward Francis, holding his skirts. “How pretty I look in this frock.”

“Hmmm.” Hands behind his back, Francis studied him solemnly. “I’ve seen fairer. You need to work on your walk, for one thing. You move in it like a drunken sailor crossing the poop deck in a hailstorm--"

James gritted his teeth. “Thanks awfully.”

“But you can save a dance for me all the same,” Francis finished. Giving James a wink, he turned and walked away, and he was whistling as he went.


	8. Need (Francis Crozier & James Fitzjames)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> terribleoldwhitemen requested the prompt "It's been a long day" for Crozier and Fitzjames

Jopson had urged him to return to _Terror_ to rest, worried that he had yet to recover sufficiently to exert himself for so long. But Francis had asked for James’s aid and discretion during his illness. It was time to repay the favor.

The captain of the _Erebus_ sat alone in the wardroom, head bowed, rubbing at his temples with the fingers of one hand. A bottle of gin and a half-empty glass sat on the table at his elbow. His Roman helmet and makeshift Britannia robe lay abandoned on the rug: even across the room, Francis could smell the smoke that had been absorbed into the fabric. James had changed into uniform but had yet to fully button his waistcoat, and someone had draped his coat over his shoulders, though James had made no effort to put it on. He glanced up when Francis entered

“If you came to rebuke me, you needn’t have troubled yourself,” James said, and his voice was more gravelly than usual, hoarse with smoke or yelling or both. “You could hardly reproach me with anything harsher than what I’ve been saying to myself.”

Francis unwrapped his muffler and pulled out the chair at James’s side. “I’m not here to rebuke you.”

James glanced up at him again. “What then? To gloat perhaps? At the glorious mess I’ve made of my short-lived command?”

He recognized baiting when he heard it. James was begging for a fight. Perhaps he wanted Francis to strike him again: to break his nose this time, or blacken an eye. Maybe he felt he deserved it, or maybe he needed the physical sensation to distract him from a worse pain. Francis understood such impulses. They were his old familiar friends. So he bit back his instinctive response and shook his head.

“It’s been a long day, James,” he said softly, ignoring the fact that dawn had been but a few hours before. “You should get some rest.”

James gave a bitter little laugh. “So I’m relieved then? Yes.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a long swallow. “Yes, that’s probably for the best. Do you know, this is the first time I’ve actually been grateful that Sir John is dead?” He looked directly at Francis, arching one brow sharply. There was a wildness in his dark eyes, a dangerous mix of alcohol and exhaustion. Was this what he had looked like when deep in his cups, Francis wondered? It almost made the misery he’d endured worth it.

“I am grateful that he wasn’t here to watch me let his men down,” James finished, tossing back another drink. The glass was empty: he set it down none too gently and reached for the bottle. It was three-fourths empty as well. Francis grasped it by the neck before James could lift it.

“James, look at me.” His tone booked no refusal. James raised his bleary gaze to meet the eyes of his fellow captain. “You _did not_ let the men down. Do you hear me? What you did, you did for their sakes. And they will not forget it. You are no more responsible for Stanley’s actions than you are for the ice failing to break.” He leaned forward, and his voice when he spoke again was a harsh whisper. “Do not go down the same hole I just crawled out of. I need you. The men of _Erebus_ need you. Don’t desert them as I deserted my crew. Don’t… abandon me as I abandoned you.”

James was silent for a moment. Then, with what seemed some effort, he said: “I wanted the men to love me, Francis. They do not love me as they loved Sir John.”

Francis had his doubts about the extent of the men’s love for Franklin, but he did not give voice to them. “The men do not require someone to love, James. They require someone to lead them. Someone who will look after their welfare. As you were doing.”

James gave him a wan smile. “You would not have held the carnivale, I think.”

Francis shrugged. “Most likely not. But then, I’m a melancholic bastard on the best of days, James. The men would expect nothing better from me. So if it’s their love you desire…” He let go of the bottle and held up both hands. “Between the two of us, whom do you think has it?”

He stood then and grasped James’s arm. “Come on, now. Let’s get you to bed. And I am giving Mr. Bridgens instructions not to allow you to stir for a good long time.”

James rose, a bit unsteady on his feet. He allowed Francis to steer him to his cabin - he had kept his smaller, subordinate one, out of respect for Sir John - and across to the narrow bunk. The coat slid off his shoulders and Francis stooped to pick it up, spreading it over James, then covering him with a blanket.

“Francis,” James said, rubbing his eyes as he settled down against the pillow, “For a melancholic bastard you’re not such a bad fellow. From time to time.”

Francis smiled. “Rest, James.” He was on the verge of leaving when a strange notion occurred to him. _Jopson, combing his hair as he lay in his sickbed_. He watched James’s eyes close, weighed down by sheer exhaustion, and he reached out slowly and brushed a few stray strands back from his forehead. His fingers trembled as he did so.

Francis supposed it was just due to the cold.


End file.
